Willow Rosenberg and the Curse of Mortureproba
by chloe.alice
Summary: On the fifth anniversary of the Battle at Hogwarts, the survivors are attending a memorial service when a Curse turns all men who fought in the battle into zombies. When all other solutions fail, the new Professor of Muggle Studies, Oz, calls in a favor from Willow.
1. Chapter 1

"Do you... do you really have to go?"

"Aw, Dawnie, it won't be for long," Willow promised as she stroked the teenager's long, chestnut hair. "And, hey, maybe I'll get back some of my red and not look so much like an old lady anymore."

She hoped the joke didn't sound so forced, but it was hard to stay chipper when everyone at LAX stared at her as they walked by. She wondered what they thought of her, if they assumed she was an old lady with way too much plastic surgery, if they thought white hair was the weird new trend amongst the younger generation, if they pitied the albino girl. Or maybe some of them knew; the televisions at the terminal hadn't reported on it yet, but some of these people had to know that a once-vibrant town, a community that thrived despite the monsters that preyed on it, the only place Willow had ever called home, was gone.

At least five hours had passed, but the newscaster was talking about a far-off war. The people who walked by were undisturbed by anything except the color of Willow's hair.

"Well, how do you know that?" Dawn pouted. "And what if, like, we're attacked by a fear demon or the Gentlemen or Xander ends up on another demon date?"

"Who, the one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple people eater? Fear demons are tiny and I don't think the Gentlemen are coming back any time soon. You've got a dozen slayers protecting you, Dawnie."

Including Kennedy, Willow thought sadly. They were still in that wonderful, fresh stage of exploration in their young relationship. She lamented leaving her behind, but she couldn't risk it; it must have been difficult enough for Oz to ask her help.

As though reading her mind, Dawn said, "Is this even safe? Didn't Oz go all wolfy last time he saw you? Maybe he's the one who needs a slayer."

The newscasters were discussing a hurricane deep in the warm waters of the equatorial Atlantic. Maybe Sunnydale wasn't gone, or maybe it had never been real to begin with. Maybe they'd imagined the whole thing. Maybe those asylum delusions that had once plagued Buffy were truth.

Nothing to be done about that, though, except to carry onward.

"That's why I gotta go, Oz would never ask me if it wasn't imperative that I be the one who goes. He says it's gotta be a witch, that only witches are allowed to enter the school."

"Well, but he's there, and he's a werewolf," Dawn pointed out, just to be argumentative.

Willow smiled and kissed her forehead. "You're my favorite ball of mystical energy, Dawnie. I couldn't possibly leave you for long. Send everyone my love, and give Xander a big, yellow crayon... just tell him not to poke out his other eye."

As Willow got in line to board the plane to Heathrow, silence descended across the terminal. She looked back and saw everyone's eyes turned to the television. Several people pulled out phones and dialed frantically. One woman suddenly fell to her knees and began to weep loudly, and then a soft chorus joined her. Willow focused on one of the screens and read the headline:

_Sunnydale Sinkhole: Entire City Destroyed._

It was all real.

###

Hagrid's eyes locked onto the door of the Leaky Cauldron as he uncharacteristically nursed his mug of Beetle Berry Whiskey. It was the middle of the day in the middle of the week in the middle of May. The few other patrons loitering at the tables whispered about why a Hogwarts professor sat at a bar in London during term, but no one had the courage to ask him. The last five years had gone smoothly at the school, incredibly so despite the many new staff members, the irreparable damage to the castle, and the abundance of ghosts that had lingered there after the battle. If there was a problem at Hogwarts now, the Leaky Cauldron patrons didn't want to know.

When _she_ walked in, they really wouldn't want to know.

"A bloody medastriga," Hagrid cursed into his whiskey. He loved his students equally, no matter how they came to be at Hogwart's. As a half-giant, it wouldn't have made any sense for him to have ill feelings toward the muggle-borns or the werewolves, and even the vampires and centaurs could be good people, just as humans could so often be bad people.

But a medastriga, a magic thief, that was every bit as unforgivable as the Cruciatus Curse! Hagrid shook his head at the thought that he was about to willingly bring one into Hogwarts. He couldn't understood how a muggle who had stolen a witch's magic—whether she knew she was doing it or not—could possibly help an already horrible situation.

The heavy wooden door squeaked open, and Hagrid looked back up to the entry. He tried to screw his face into a welcoming appearance, but failed miserably. The two wizards that walked through—definitely not the medastriga—stood in the doorway for a moment to allow their eyes to adjust to the dimly lit bar. As soon as they could see clearly enough to notice Hagrid's hulking, menacing presence, they gasped and hurried through to Diagon Alley.

"I'd be lying if I said you were good for business today."

"I'm sorry, Tom," Hagrid said to the barkeep. "I wouldna be here at all if—"

His sentence ended there as the door opened again, this time revealing a disheveled girl wearing dingy khaki pants and a ripped, flesh-toned shirt speckled with a muted paisley pattern. She didn't match the description the Professor of Muggle Studies had given him—"Can't miss her, red hair, green eyes, probably in, like, really loud clothes. Oh, and she's probably still a lesbian,"—but Hagrid had no doubts that this woman was the medastriga.

Nor did anyone else in the Leaky Cauldron. The din of chatting ceased, filled almost immediately by harsh, biting whispers. One wizard stood, but the witch who dined with him held him back with a firm hand before he could approach the newcomer. She strolled in on confident feet, belied by the nervous glances she shot across the room.

Hagrid stood to greet her. He had to give her credit for hesitating at his height for the briefest of time before continuing toward him.

"Bad for business, indeed," Tom hissed. "You bringing that kind of trouble into my pub?"

Hagrid apologized again. "Official Hogwarts business, we'll leave straightaway."

The girl stopped a couple feet away from him, and said nothing. She cocked her head to the side, her white hair pooling on her shoulder as her smoky eyes studied him intently.

Hagrid grunted. "You the one Professor Osbourne called in?"

"I was expecting Oz to meet me, not a…well, you're certainly a big one, aren't you? Are you a…?"

"Rubeus Hagrid," he said, dodging any questions she might have of his background. "Keeper of Keys and Grounds and Professor of Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts."

"Well, isn't that a mouthful? I'm Willow Rosenberg, ex-college student and co-destroyer of Sunnydale. Ooh, and unleasher of Slayers. That's a good one." She offered her hand, but Hagrid refused it.

"Beggin' your pardon, but I won't be shakin' hands with no medastriga."

She looked confused at the term, but she was a muggle, so of course she wouldn't know his words. If she had the audacity to steal magic, though, Hagrid wasn't going to make it easy for her.

"Well then, shall we get going?" she said after a pause. "I'd like to figure this out and return home as soon as possible."

"As would I," Hagrid grunted as he led her out of the pub, giving the patrons a chance to gossip openly about why he was meeting with the likes of her.

###

The stone stairs that spiraled up to the owlery were particularly slick, owing mostly to the rainy spring. The West Tower had no glass in the windows. As much as Oz told himself it was a blessing—even with the open air, the stench was almost unbearable to his sensitive nose—he cursed as his feet slid out from under him. He grabbed the bannister to keep from falling, but it didn't save him any embarrassment; a group of fifth year girls in Slytherin colors giggled as they passed him on their way out. He told himself to ignore the harsh words they spoke when they were outside of earshot for any witch or wizard, but not for his werewolf ears.

He wasn't sure if they said 'muggle' or 'mongrel', and he wasn't sure which was more offensive. On the surface, 'mongrel' seemed worse. He had no pride in being a werewolf, and he certainly didn't want to be compared to a dog. 'Muggle' shouldn't have been offensive at all; it just irritated him that his survival from the werewolf attack—or gentle bite from a sugared-up cousin, as it were—and his ability to see and enter Hogwarts at all proved that he wasn't muggle.

He just couldn't actually use magic. What magic inside him that kept him alive with the lycanthropic disease was so little that it hadn't ever been detected.

He thought of himself as a wizard Anakin Skywalker, stuffed with magic midichlorians but discovered too late to receive the proper magic jedi education.

He tried not to think of himself as a Darth Vadar, and that tale was cautionary enough that he was happy to be deemed too old to be taught magic safely. So when students called him a muggle behind his back, he told himself that they just didn't understand the situation. Besides, he was Oz, he was way too cool to be bothered by a couple of teenage girls.

He just didn't feel much like Oz anymore.

"I _am_ Oz," he said out loud, his words echoing off the walls of the stone tower and coming back to him with an extra squeal.

He craned his neck back to look to the stairs above him, where a single student sat. Oz couldn't identify the student beyond the black robes, but as he walked up the steps, he heard a feminine voice say, "I apologize, professor. You startled me. And, erm, in case you needed reassurance, you _are_ Professor Osbourne."

"Pretty much all the time," Oz murmured as he turned the bend and saw that the voice belonged to Daisy Cauldwell, one of his students from his fourth year Muggle Studies class. She was a small, fair haired girl, normally of a bright disposition. Now her cheeks were damp and flushed red, glowing against her muted yellow collar and tie.

Oz sat down next to her and pulled from his pocket a tissue. "It gets better."

"What does?" she asked as she took the tissue from him.

"Life."

"Oh." Daisy sniffled and wiped the tears off her cheeks. "It's nothing, those girls were just…you wouldn't understand. You went to a muggle school, right?"

Oz shrugged. "Muggle girls can be pretty mean, too."

"Did they tease you about…what you are?"

"A bassist?"

"A werewolf." When Oz didn't reply immediately, she apologized. "I don't mean—it's cool, you know? Some of the parents don't like having a werewolf here, but I don't mind." She cleared her throat. "They weren't even teasing me. I came up here to send an owl to my pa and they just…they made a comment about my brother."

Daisy's older brother, Owen, had been one of his first students. He was a quiet boy, not surprisingly. Those who had fought in the Battle at Hogwarts had all been touched by it. They'd all seen things no one their age should have, things to which Oz was uniquely sympathetic—he'd seen his fair share of horror in his years at Sunnydale High. Oz was impressed that so many students like Owen had returned and finished their education at Hogwarts after the war.

He'd been equally surprised when they'd returned earlier that month for the memorial on the fifth anniversary of the battle. The spectacle had been incredible, and it was true what they said: time did heal all wounds. The event was a joyous one, filled with happy stories of those who passed, harrowing tales of their bravery and silly anecdotes of their everyday lives. If only the memorial hadn't been ended by that terrible curse.

Owen was now in the dungeons, along with all the other bodies from that night.

Daisy nervously tore at the tissue, ripping little corners out of it and scattering them across the lap of her rumpled robe. Oz thought the robes must have been hot, now that June was approaching, but the students didn't seem to mind. Still, he was glad that the rest of the faculty had given up coercing him out of his Muggle attire.

"I overheard Professors Sinistra and Sprout today," Daisy said, her voice laced with guilt over eavesdropping. "They said you were bringing in a…a medastriga. Is that true?"

Oz sighed. The students were so scared of the bodies in the basement dungeons that Potions was now being taught in the Room of Requirement and a temporary entrance to the Slytherin quarters had to be conjured. The only place Headmaster McGonagall was able to position it was on an outer wall of the castle, and the Slytherin students were taking their anger out on students related to those cursed. Meanwhile, the most powerful wizards from all over the world had come to figure out what had happened the night of the memorial, but no one had a solution. Hogwarts now played host not only to them but also the witches who had accompanied their fathers, brothers, and husbands to the memorial and now refused to leave without their loved ones restored. Despite its size, Hogwarts Castle was feeling a bit cramped these days.

So when Oz suggested to Headmaster McGonagall and the rest of the faculty that he call Willow in, it hadn't crossed his mind that she might have come across her abilities differently than any other witch. The others were right, though; it was impossible that Willow could have been a natural born witch. It was only when they asked which wizarding school she'd attended that Oz realized that Willow was different from them, that even though she was unequivocally a witch, she'd somehow come across her powers an alternate way. If he'd thought about it before, and if he'd done a bit of research to figure out how exactly Willow could have become a witch, he never would have suggested her.

It was too late now. As annoyed as the rest of the faculty was about bringing a medastriga in, they admitted that her resume was quite impressive—a successful enjoining spell with two muggles and a common garden gourd! They'd been debating bringing her in since Oz's initial suggestion, but hadn't been able to come to consensus.

Then, just two nights ago, Hogwarts castle was awakened by disturbances in both the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor dorms. A Ravenclaw prefect was attempting to break up a fight when she suddenly pushed a much larger boy through a window—he was fine, an awning caught him and the prefect pulled him back up with just one arm—and a first year Gryffindor girl who meant only to lean against the post of her bunk bed inadvertently knocked it and several other beds over. A couple of the beds had been occupied, but other than a couple scrapes and bruises, the only injury was to the first year girl's pride.

The prefect admitted that she had been approached by the Watcher's Council the same summer she received her acceptance to Hogwarts but had never noticed any unnatural strength until now. With a phone call to Los Angeles, Oz knew that Willow had performed her most powerful spell to date. McGonagall sent an owl immediately, and next thing Oz knew, Hagrid was heading to Diagon Alley to retrieve Willow.

"She…might be a medastriga," Oz told Daisy. "She's also saved the world a bunch."

"I don't want her to save the world. Just my brother."


	2. Chapter 2

**Minerva**

Thirty-two vials, each with a name etched on their sides, were lined up on a shelf in the Headmaster's office. Aside from the etching, each looked identical, with a single drop of silvery, viscous liquid.

Minerva selected from near the end of the row a vial labeled 'Susan Bones'. The ones before it—twenty-five of them—had already been viewed, but the headmaster was hopeful still. One of these had to contain some new information, something that would help break the curse. She uncorked the vial and poured its contents into the Pensieve.

The memories swirled in the smoke and then came together to form a warm, clear evening set on the Viaduct Courtyard, just as the other memories had.

Susan Bones stands with Hannah Abbott, Neville Longbottom, and Zacharias Smith. He is looking very sheepish, just as he did in Hannah Abbot's memory. The quartet is laughing about a mishap at a DA meeting. Neville is telling the story, but Susan has to take over for him after he mentions Colin Creevey and then falls silent. Hannah hugs Neville and whispers something in his ear that Susan can't hear.

"His blood is not on your hands." Those words had stayed with Minerva since viewing Hannah's memory. Neville Longbottom, the Slayer of Nagini, had personally retrieved Colin's body during the Battle of Hogwarts.

The chime of a knife against a champagne flute, and Susan turns to see Minerva walking into the center of the courtyard. The group of nearly a hundred cheer as they gather around her. She waves to everyone and begins her speech.

If she had known she'd later have to listen to it so many times, she would have made it shorter.

She ends her speech by listing everyone who died in the battle. The list is arranged with former students and other adults first, followed by current students and ending with Hogwarts staff. "Septima Vector," she calls out, "Professor of Arithmancy. Stephanus Malgin, Professor of Magical Theory." She pauses then. Susan looks up at Zacharias. He puts his arm around her.

Finally, Minerva clears her throat and says, "Severus Snape, Headmaster."

The crowd is uncomfortably still. They've all been told that Snape was their savior, and all the horrors that happened on his watch he allowed only at Dumbledore's insistence, but it is hard to forgive even five years later.

Minerva turns away then, and a husky voice says, "Vincent Crabbe."

Susan cranes her neck to see who has spoken the name, but cannot see above the crowd.

Zacharias whispers, "Goyle," to her.

A girl now says, "Antonin Dolohov."

Susan gasps. "How dare she? That man killed Professor Lupin!"

Zacharias takes her hand and shushes her gently. "That man was her uncle."

The names of other Death Eaters are called. The crowd grows angry. Again Minerva steps into the middle and lifts her hands for silence. "The history of war is told by the victors," she reminds them, "but those who are defeated deserve the same level of respect."

"They weren't the defeated," huffs Susan. "They were the villains."

Zacharias hushes her more sharply this time.

"Graham Montague," Minerva calls out, continuing the list of Death Eaters who died in the battle. The crowd seems to accept this and allows her to finish.

When she says, "Bellatrix Lestrange," Neville turns and walks away. Like Hannah, Susan does not pay attention to where he goes.

Minerva cursed as she attempted to track him in Susan's peripheral vision. There were more urgent mysteries to unravel here, but this one particularly nagged at her. All the victims of the curse had been retrieved, all but one—where _was_ Neville Longbottom?

Back in the memory, the speech-making Minerva leaves one name off the list, and no one else is willing to say it. After all, he should not be named.

Susan is still irritated when the crowd finally disperses. She wants to leave, but Zacharias urges her to stay. They walk toward the old Quad, where the damage from the battle is irreparable. The area is quiet, overgrown with wildflowers vining around the giant chunks of brick wall that no magic is able to remove. It is peaceful until Susan and Zacharias bring their argument in with them. It disturbs the boy who sits alone on a bit of ruined wall.

Draco Malfoy, Minerva knew before seeing his face. He spins around, startled by the yelling. The white shirt he wears is wrinkled, his green tie is knotted poorly, and his white-blonde hair is disheveled. His usually pale skin is markedly sallow, the bags under his eyes a livid purple. He looks ill, but the type of sickness that comes not from the body, but the heart.

Susan sees him and lunges at him. Zacharias attempts to hold her back, but reaches her only after she gets a good swing in. Draco has a hand on his cheek when he stands, but he does nothing to retaliate.

"They're all dead!" Susan shrieks as she fights against Zacharias, but he's bigger and stronger than her. "All dead because of you!"

"Susan, please!" Zacharias pleads.

Draco's head is low as he walks away, stopping only when he's several yards away. "I…I don't know what you're talking about. I'm sorry."

"No, of course you wouldn't," Susan spits, still furious but calmed enough that Zacharias lets her go. She walks up to Draco as she says, "My aunt and uncle, my cousins, my grandparents. You killed them all."

Draco holds his hands up in a show of surrendering. "Look, I didn't kill anyone, okay?"

"You Death Eaters are all the same. What one of you did, you all did."

"I-I'm not a D-death Eater!" Draco stutters.

Susan pulls out her wand and jams it into Draco's wrist. "Show it to me," she hisses. "Show me that you're not a Death Eater."

Draco drops his hands, making sure his sleeves cover up whatever might be there. "I didn't kill anyone," he repeats, but he refuses to show the proof that he wasn't a Death Eater.

The scar is still there, marking him a liar.

"The sins of the father," Susan whispers. "You don't know what he did, do you? Babies, Malfoy. They were just babies, and he…"

Susan collapses, exhausted. Zacharias rushes to her side, but she shoos him away. "You wouldn't understand, you didn't lose anyone to them. You…you didn't fight them."

"Susan, please—"

"No! I know you feel badly about it. I know you'll feel guilty about deserting us for longer than anyone else could be mad at you for it, and I don't know if anyone is mad at you at all. But…you weren't there. You can't know what this feels like."

Zacharias starts to respond, but is pushed away by Hermione Granger. She crouches down next to Susan and says, "We're all walking down to the White Tomb. Would you like to join us?"

Minerva stepped away from the Pensieve. She didn't want to know about moments like this. All thirty-two memories had been given up freely, their owners knowing that she would see any intimate exchanges that happened that evening. That didn't make her feel any better about spying on their private lives.

She looked up at the great wall of portraits that hung behind her desk. Nearly every headmaster Hogwarts ever had hung there, although several of the frames were empty. The Fat Lady was having a recital over at the Gryffindor entrance, and those who hadn't been able to come up with a decent excuse were in attendance.

The headmasters who were in their frames greeted Minerva with words of encouragement and suggestions, but nothing of any use. It was midday, so only one of the portraits slept. She glared at him.

"Professor McGonagall," Newton Scamander snapped from his portrait two frames down from Dumbledore. "I see that look."

She sighed. "I apologize, Professor Scamander. I'd just really like to talk to Dumbledore, and ever since the curse, he sleeps whenever I'm in here. I do believe he's dodging me."

There was a murmur of chatter from the portraits, although their words were too quiet for her to hear them.

"What is it?" she asked when suddenly none of them would make eye contact.

"Erm, it seems…well…" Fytherley Undercliffe started.

"It seems Dumbledore hasn't woken up since the curse!" Dilys Derwent cried out, her voice frantic.

"What!?" Minerva snapped. "Why wasn't I told of this?"

"We didn't was to stress you, dear," said Scamander. "Knock you off your game and such. I'm sure once you lift the curse, he'll be right as rain. Perhaps you should, ah, get back to that Pensieve now."

Once she lifted the curse, indeed! She returned to Susan's memory, unable to do anything with this new bit of knowledge.

Susan, Hermione, and Zacharias join the group of about a dozen as they head down to Dumbledore's tomb. The group quickly swells to nearly everyone at the service. They are solemn as they walk, the argument with the few Death Eaters in attendance put aside in honor of Dumbledore. Even Draco Malfoy walks with them, and Susan notices the bruise already forming on his cheek.

They make a semi-circle around the tomb on the edge of the lake. The group is silent at first, and then George Weasley laughs and says, "This one time, I think it was our second year, Professor Snape gave Fred a bad mark. He was really miffed about it, so we snuck down to the dungeons that night and lined Snape's doorway with Dungbombs—I had this sweet enchantment that made them look like roaches, and we figured he'd try to squash them and—well, anyway, we weren't paying attention, and Dumbledore snuck up on us.

"I thought we were gonna get expelled, and then he just says, 'Nothing clears my mind on a dreary night quite like a walk through the basement and a nice, refreshing, sherbet lemon.' Then he hands us this stuff—very good, mind you, kind of a slushy lemon water in a little paper cup—and he just walks off. He could have expelled us—he certainly should have taken at least 100 points from Gryffindor—but instead he gave us sherbet lemon. He was a great man."

The group erupts then, everyone talking at once about some trivial moment they had with Dumbledore. They are all children again, just as the great Headmaster would have wanted.

Then it happens.

Minerva peeked around as well as she could, but the view was no better in Susan's memory than it had been for anyone else. Everyone was too wrapped in their stories, even those closest to Harry Potter. All Minerva could see was him stumbling out of the circle, but again she couldn't tell why. Was he pushed? Did someone deliberately knock him over, or did he simply trip over something by accident?

As he stumbles, Harry reaches out for support and touches the White Tomb. Susan isn't looking at him, but out of her peripheral vision, he seems startled, as though a shock has just gone through him. He starts to stand and then collapses, lifeless. Ron Weasley reaches down to help him up, and then he, too, falls over.

Susan doesn't notice it at first, but all around her men are falling down. Finally she says, "Woah, Malfoy," forgetting her fight with him.

He's lying there, between Susan and Pomona Sprout, face down in the grass. Professor Sprout crouches down to see if he's okay—as are witches all around them, although Susan is too distracted to realize that—and when she rolls him over, his eyes are open, as though dead.

There's a shriek—Angelina Johnson, "George? Georgie, get up!"—and then a bright burst of sparks from a wand—Poppy Pomfrey's, attempting to heal Horace Slughorn—and out of the corner of Susan's eye, a blur running away—Hermione Granger, running to find Minerva.

The same story as all the other girls, told from a different angle.

Minerva looked away, angry now that she knew Dumbledore had also been cursed, angry that she hadn't been there herself to witness this disaster, angry that she had wasted her time on another memory.

She was about to scoop the memory back into its vial when she remembered the Susan had specifically asked that she take the memory from later that night as well.

Back in the Pensieve, time has shifted forward several hours, and the setting is the Great Hall. Forty-two bodies—all the men attending the memorial who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, except Neville Longbottom—create a scene eerily reminiscent of that fateful night. The Great Hall is in full repair now, though, and decorated in yellow and black for the first time in half a century. It's dark, in the early hours of the morning. The people unaffected by the curse have been taken in by their former Houses. Everyone is supposed to be sleeping now, an impossible task for many.

As Susan walks in, she sees light from a wand down at the end of the row. She heads toward it quickly, careful not to look at the bodies. Perhaps she came to pay her final respects but can't bear it, or maybe she walked into the Great Hall with no plan at all and is grateful for the wand's guidance.

The wand is held by Ginny Weasley. She is pacing back and forth and pointing at several bodies while she mumbles to herself. When she realizes that Susan is behind her, she yelps. The sound echoes through the cavernous hall, amplifying into a nightmarish screech on its returns.

Susan apologizes for startling her, then suggests that she escort Ginny back to Gryffindor tower.

"I can't," Ginny says. "This isn't right."

Susan finally looks down. Ginny is standing in front of the Weasleys—Charlie, George, Percy, and Ron—and for some reason, Charlie is laying on his side. Susan crouches down to lay him out properly, but Ginny pulls her back.

"Don't touch him!" she snaps angrily.

"It's alright," Susan assures her. "Let me walk you back to Gryffindor, okay? You need some sleep."

"No, this isn't right!"

Susan waves her hand in exasperation. "I can fix him, make it right, if you'll only let me!"

"I don't mean that! I mean…this isn't how they're supposed to be. This isn't how they _were_."

Susan backs away slowly. "I'm going to go get—"

"I had Charlie and then Percy and _then_ George. And next to Harry wasn't Lee. I left a spot there for Neville, because I thought when we found him…I thought…"

Ginny falls to her knees at Harry's feet. She's saying something over and over again, so quickly that Susan can't understand her. Susan stands there helplessly. She looks down the row of bodies again, and at first nothing happens. Ginny is sobbing, but Susan does nothing to help her—what could she do?—and then something moves at the opposite end.

Susan whispers, "_Lumus_," and her wand lights up. She walks to the end and stops at the feet of Draco Malfoy. His cheek is now livid purple and greatly swollen. Even in death, he looks stressed. She stands there for nearly a minute, waving her wand around to figure out what she saw before. She sighs and shakes her head.

And Draco Malfoy sits up.

Susan's eyes widen. Her breath catches in her throat. She glances wildly at Ginny, who hasn't noticed, then she looks back at Draco.

Still sitting there.

She tries to speak, managing only a gasp, too soft to be heard over Ginny's sobs.

Draco stands.

His eyes are open. They are clouded over, focused on nothing.

Susan cannot move. Her fear is palpable.

Draco reaches out and grabs her. She trembles. His head leans over her shoulder. He is still, his arms wrapped around her loosely and the entire weight of his body held up by her shoulder. They stand like that for several seconds before Susan finally finds herself. She lets out a horrible shriek and pushes him away. As Ginny runs up to her, Draco lays back down, this time curled into the fetal position.

Minerva stood there dumbly long after the memory faded out. The occasional walks that the bodies took were well documented by now, but it had been thought of as some sort of autonomous motion caused by the curse, bereft of any sort of brain activity. Some of the observers had claimed that it was more than that, but Minerva had always thought of those claims as fantasy brought on by hysteria.

But Draco knew that was Susan.

He _knew_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Willow**

Nothing in California had ever quite matched the natural beauty and serenity of the English countryside. The grounds of Hogwarts, the lush grass and dense forest and sparkling lake on the horizon, quieted her shaken nerves. Willow complimented Hagrid on the thriving greenery, but he responded with barely a grunt.

And then there was the mystical energy. It was as intoxicating as Rack, but this was clean, pure. It sizzled on her skin as it heightened her senses. Every breath made her feel alive again, something she hadn't really felt since Tara.

Hagrid walked up the steep path at a brisk pace. With the great length of his stride, it was nearly impossible for Willow to keep up. She was nearly flush with him—and flush with the effort—when she spied, in the distance, a group of children playing catch. They were at least fifty feet in the air, flying around on broomsticks. Startled, Willow tripped over her feet and fell head first against Hagrid.

He reached down and picked her up, muttering, "Next yer gonna tell me you ain't never seen a broomstick before."

Willow was getting irritated with his attitude, but reminded herself for the umpteenth time that giants were probably naturally grumpy. And she supposed that to someone who grew up here, it was probably strange that some people _didn't_ travel through fire grates.

The humming of magic on her skin intensified when they reached a small courtyard where about a dozen students loitered. She nodded in acknowledgement at the two nearest her. Their eyes widened and the smaller one—a boy of maybe eleven or twelve years—squeaked and hurried away.

"Jeesh, just like the airport," Willow muttered, and kept her focus riveted to the back of Hagrid's enormous moleskin coat.

As she passed them, the other students whispered loudly. Several times she heard the same word Hagrid had used before, _medastriga_. She wanted to ask him what it meant, but doubted he'd be forthcoming.

They entered into a dim hallway, lit only by the sun that filtered in through ancient, warped window panes. Willow had expected something more vibrant, with all manner of wonderment, but was let down. It was just an old hallway. High school was high school, she decided. If it wasn't infested with ubervamps, it lacked basic lighting. Or lockers. Or posters. Or linoleum. The floor of this hallway was tiled stone.

The wall was unadorned save for a portrait of a man reminiscent of Don Quixote seated on an ostrich. Willow glanced at it absently as she hurried by, but then out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the man dismount the ostrich. She looked back again, and sure enough, the man was now standing next to the bird. She looked forward too late and plowed directly into a lady she hadn't noticed walking toward her.

At least, that's what she expected to happen.

She lifted her arms to brace for the impact, and then passed through the lady, again falling into Hagrid. Only afterward did she realize the lady was barely more than a silvery hologram.

She gasped and then started laughing. "Oh gosh, is that just a projection?"

The lady turned and glared angrily at her. "A projection? A projection! I'm not some muggle machination! I'll have you know that Hogwarts has been my home for a millennium."

"And how are you today, Grey Lady?" Hagrid asked.

The woman simpered and curtseyed. "I'm wonderful, Hagrid, and yourself."

"I'll be good once I deliver this ter Professor Osbourne."

The woman looked at Willow again and turned up her nose. "Hmph, well make it quick, I don't want my Ravenclaws polluted by such nonsense." With that, she turned and passed through the wall next to the portrait, where the ostrich rider now stood at the corner of the frame, listening intently to the conversation.

Willow took a deep breath. "Was that…was that a ghost? Because I have _not_ had good experiences with ghosts. This one time, this ghost made, like, a sinkhole in the floor and sucked me in and—"

Hagrid lifted her to feet. "You heard what the Gray Lady said. Let's go."

~..~

The corridor on the second floor looked far more interesting. There were several suits of armor lining the walls, many more paintings, and some students gathered at the opposite end. They were laughing loudly and the girls squealed as a boy pulled out his wand and pointed it at something that instantly ignited. Willow wanted to see what they were playing with, but the first door at the top of the stairs was labeled "Muggle Studies." She didn't know what that meant, but she remembered the word from the letter she'd received. She wasn't surprised when Hagrid opened that door.

The classroom was filled with commonplace items—phones, microwaves, slinkies—but without any logical order. Kitchen items hung from the ceiling, office supplies were dismantled on student desks, candles were held in gutted Magic-8 Balls. Everything was banal, but nothing was properly utilized.

The room was big enough that within it were five cars. None of them had any sort of bodies, nor windows or even back seats. Each car had four students at it, one in the driver's seat, two working on the engine or at the tires, and the fourth a couple feet away, holding a stop watch. At two of the cars, the students were at a flat tire attempting to change it. Another group was pulling out all manner of bits from the engine. One team was still waiting while a flustered, spiky-haired boy with the stop watch played with the buttons.

As Hagrid strode in, there was a loud bang and the room filled with the odor of sticky buns. The sound was definitely the fifth car turning over, but Willow had no idea what caused the smell until she noticed the bubble at the end of the car's exhaust. It was filled with black smoke, but permeating through it was a golden vapor. Willow had to approve the bizarre antipollution effort.

"Professor Osbourne," Hagrid announced, "I got yer medastriga."

The students all looked up, and Willow groaned. The term was bad, of that she was certain, and she didn't want to scare off any more students.

Then everyone was excited. The spiky-haired boy thrust the stop watch at her, asking her to please make it work. A pale girl wearing a green tie ran up to her and said, "Please, tell me how you did it. My cousin is a squib and we're trying—." She was cut off by another green-tied girl, who pulled her away quickly. She didn't look frightened by Willow, though, just angry with the one who was talking. She scolded her quietly as Willow started up the stop watch and the spiky-haired boy's team cheered and got to work on the tire. Hagrid stepped away, allowing Willow to see the front of the classroom.

"You know that's cheating."

"I'm thinking of it more as a Phone-a-Friend."

Their moment of cool passed, and Willow and Oz ran to each other and embraced. It had been too long—far too long—and even though they could never again be what they once were, there was a bond between them that neither time nor distance could ever lessen.

"Oh god, I've missed you so much," Willow whispered. A single tear of joy slipped down her cheek.

"I'm so glad you came," Oz said. "I'm so glad you're okay. I can't believe—you're alive. When I heard…but you're here." He squeezed her tight, and it felt like home.

"You don't have to worry about me anymore. It's gone. The Hellmouth."

They embraced long enough that some of the students started laughing, but Willow didn't care. They weren't old enough to understand, not yet.

"Hey, Willow?"

"Yes, Oz?"

"What's up with the hair?"

~..~

They were on their way to the Headmaster's Office before Willow answered the question as best as she could.

"If I knew, I'd tell you. Happened a couple hours after…after Sunnydale. I took a nap, and when I woke up, this." She flipped the soft, white strands. "When I unlocked the slayers, it looked like this for just a second, but then it went back to red. Well, that's what Kennedy said, at least. And then—"

"Kennedy?"

Willow cringed. "Okay, promise you won't wolf out on me, but she's my girlfriend now."

Oz shrugged. "It's cool. I stopped taking those herbs, so I'm back to being a wolf on full moons, but no more surprise wolf. They got a place here where I can go and be safe. It's pretty okay."

"Oz, what is this place?" Willow asked.

Oz looked around, as though previously unaware of his surroundings. "Oh, this is the Grand Staircase. It takes us pretty much anywhere."

Willow had to admit it was pretty impressive, with staircases moving all around and huge chandeliers hanging down at least seven stories. There were more students here, but with so many floors and so much sliding of the cases, no one paid attention to her. That wasn't what she was asking, though. "No, I mean all of it. Why are we here? Why are you here? How does this place even exist?"

"After I left Sunnydale last time, I ended up in London. I met this guy, Bill. Scary looking dude, but pretty cool. And a werewolf, sort of. I could smell it on him, you know? But he didn't transform."

"Was he doing the herb thing, like you?"

"No, no, he just didn't get infected like I did. I met him right before the full moon, though, so he brought me to the safe house here. They needed a new Muggle Studies instructor—the post was empty after the last instructor was murdered—and I'm pretty much a muggle, so it worked out." He walked up to a stone griffon and said, "_Trifolium incarnatum._" The griffon spun away, revealing a spiral staircase.

Willow wanted to ask about the murder, but that could wait. "What's that mean? A muggle?"

"Oh, non-magic people. Most of the students here come from wizarding families, so they don't know anything about how muggles live."

"And what about me? Hagrid kept calling me a medastriga. What's that?"

The door at the top of the stairs opened. Standing there was an elderly woman, tall and strict-looking with small, square glasses and black hair pulled back into a bun. She wore green, velvet robes over a high-collared black blouse. She stepped forward and smiled warmly at Oz.

"Professor Osbourne, I see your medastriga friend has arrived safely." Then she offered her hand to Willow. "I am Minerva McGonagall, the Headmistress here at Hogwarts. I was the one who sent you the message."

Willow took the hand gratefully, thankful for the pleasant greeting. "Willow Rosenberg. It's a pleasure to meet you." The woman's handshake was firm, showing none of the fear she'd seen from Hagrid and the students. "I have to say, I've never had a letter delivered to me by a pigeon. I thought it was a joke until you mentioned Oz in it."

"Is that what they use in America? Pigeons? We use owls here. Well, I'm glad you took it seriously; Professor Osbourne tells me you're quite a powerful medastriga."

The way she said it didn't sound quite as negative as Hagrid, but Willow still didn't understand why that was said, as opposed to simply _witch_. "I'm sorry, I don't know what that means."

"A magic thief such as yourself, dear."

Willow gasped. It was fair to say that she'd used other people's magic before—they'd never have stopped the Gentlemen if Tara hadn't bolstered her power—but only once had she ever forcibly stolen magic from anyone. To be branded as such after a single incident that she had made such amends for was preposterous!

Willow took a step back, unsure of how to even respond. Finally, she looked to Oz and said, "I'm sorry, I can't…" She turned and ran down the stairs, only to find the passageway at the bottom to be closed again.

Professor McGonagall was incredibly swift for her advanced years, and followed close behind her. "My dear, no," she said apologetically. "I suppose that does sound harsh, but I did not mean it thusly. It is not altogether uncommon of an occurrence. I believe muggles are not aware when they've done it. You see, people like myself are born from a magical family, and it was passed down to me. Sometimes wizards are born of muggles, but there has to have been a wizard ancestor. It's all…hmm…Professor Osbourne, what is the muggle term for this?"

"Genetics?" Oz offered.

"Yes, thank you, dear. You cannot naturally acquire magical powers as a teenager, Ms. Rosenberg. Likely, you unwittingly manipulated an item with a blood tie to a nearby wizard. Proximity is necessary. After the initial theft a link is formed, and the medastriga can siphon magic directly from the source. Most medastriga only manage basic spells, and although it weakens the bloodline, it results in little more than a muggle cold.

"What you've done with it, though, is truly incredible. I've never heard of a muggle—or even many wizardfolk—who have attained such a level as yourself at so early an age. Please, if you are truly able to break this curse, you are welcome to as much of our magic as necessary. Only, I do ask that you don't perform any unnecessary spells while you are here. I don't know what your source was in America, and if it did not follow you here, I want none of my students harmed frivolously."

She seemed to be looking for agreement, but Willow found herself chasing too many thoughts to respond. Could it be possible? Was there a witch in Sunnydale whom she'd somehow stolen magic from? Amy was always around, could Willow have been taking hers? And was that why Amy stayed a rat for so long? Had Willow done that on purpose for so long? Had she known deep down inside?

But no, because Amy wasn't around in the beginning, not when Willow gave Angel back his soul. And then Amy left, and there was so much magic then.

Rack's magic. Rack died for that magic.

Willow felt lightheaded. She tried to focus on the Headmistress's glasses, but everything was a blur.

Rack died. And then she went to England. To the Devon coven.

"The Devon coven."

And then she collapsed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ginny**

Without the usual traffic of students, the air in the dungeons was colder than Ginny remembered from her school years. It was darker, too, and quieter, making it feel much more like a dungeon than it ever had before. Ginny heard only her own footsteps, her own breathing, her own heartbeat as she entered the corridor leading to the cells.

She had never thought before about why a school would even have them. They existed without explanation. Even when the bodies had first been moved there, she hadn't questioned them. Now, though, that she'd spent so much time here that she began to study them.

The walls of the cells were covered in writing. Some of it was written in fading ink, mostly notes of puppy love—AN+RS, Jim & Trina Forever—making Ginny think that in recent times, the cells were mostly used by Slytherins looking for a romantic hide-out. Some of it was older, though, crudely carved out of the stone in archaic tongues. One cell had the same message carved ad nauseam over the entire wall. Ginny didn't know what it said, only that it was the same sentence repeated hundreds of times.

The doors to the cells were open, with only an enchanted entrance into the corridor keeping the bodies from walking out. They'd closed the cells at first, but that had lasted only hours before the men had started making a strange, high pitched keening sound that only stopped when the cells were open. Now they were free to roam, and every time Ginny visited, they were shuffled around.

Today, she found Harry, Ron, George, and Charlie laying on their stomachs, head to head in a circle. They looked like school girls who had fallen asleep gossiping at a slumber party, and one had been shamed and was sent to the corner. Draco.

As horrible as it was, Ginny was fascinated by him. The others of questionable loyalty had flocked together in one cell. Only Malfoy was ever seen out of it, and almost always wherever Harry was. Today he was against the bars, sitting upright but slouched over his knees. Sometimes he was laid out, though, and Ginny had even seen him standing in the back, faced toward the wall. The rest of them were usually laying down, but not Malfoy.

Many of the Hogwarts residents were scared to even come down to the basement, let alone enter the cell corridor, but Ginny didn't mind it. She was still startled every time one of the bodies moved, but no more so than if anyone else had made a sudden motion. Hermione spent all day and night in the Restricted Section of the library, trying to find some explanation for this, and Ginny wanted to help her there, but this was where she needed to be. Here in the dungeon, with her family.

She said 'hello' to Draco as she entered the cell.

He was unresponsive, dead.

She knelt down between Harry and Ron and took hold of their hands. As she did every time she visited them, she held her breath and felt for their pulses. The only one she ever felt was her own. Their hands were cold, dead.

From her pocket, Ginny pulled out a damp towel and gently cleaned Harry's face. She did it every day for Harry, Ron, George, and Charlie, and for Percy too when she could find him. He hid frequently, under beds or in shadows.

Ginny inspected Harry's face as she wiped the smudge of dungeon dust away. It was cold and pale, drained of any blood, but it was pristine, marred only by the scar on his forehead. There was not a single mark of decay, even after two weeks. She thought it was proof that they were more than animated corpses, that surely if they were dead, their flesh would do what it did naturally when anything died.

The alternative, that when this curse finally lifted they'd be truly dead, was impossible for Ginny to consider.

The enchanted door opened and Filch came lumbering in, Mrs. Norris in tow. In Filch's hands were two large buckets, brimming over with table scraps from lunch.

"What's all that about?" Ginny asked.

He ignored her and threw a handful of scraps into one of the cells.

Ginny gasped and stood up. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Professor Malfoy says I should feed 'em, so that's what I been doin'," the old hunchbacked squib grumbled as he fished out another handful and flung it into the next cell.

Professor Malfoy! The very title made Ginny's ears burn. Harry had pointed out, more often that necessary, that he would likely have died if not for Narcissa Malfoy, and Ginny was truly thankful for that. But to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was outrageous! Dumbledore had made some peculiar decisions during his tenure, and McGonagall seemed to now follow in her predecessor's footsteps. It always seemed to work for Dumbledore—well, aside from what he couldn't have possibly planned for, like Barty Crouch, Jr., kidnapping Mad-Eye Moony and posing as him—but Ginny didn't know how this could work out happily in the end.

She'd discussed it with some of the students, and they'd been surprisingly cordial about Narcissa Malfoy. They didn't like her, necessarily, but most said they felt prepared should they ever need to use DADA skills. Many said that her background with the Death Eaters allowed for more insight into what to expect. It all sounded great, but if Narcissa ever turned against the school, she would know exactly what to expect from her former students.

Still, it wasn't an argument worth having, certainly not with Filch. Instead, Ginny picked the easier battle. She wrenched one of the buckets from Filch's hand.

"She certainly didn't tell you to feed them table scraps!" she barked at him.

"Don't make much a difference, do it? Ain't none left when I come back. Must be eating it."

"I don't care! This is my family, my friends, and hers too! Does she know this is what you're feeding them? Should I tell her this?"

Filch muttered something under his breath and grabbed the bucket back from her. She expected to argue more, but then he turned and walked away. Hopefully, he was walking to the kitchens to get proper food.

Food! Why hadn't Narcissa mentioned this, either? Ginny chewed on her lip while she thought about it. That they apparently ate when no one was watching was a positive thing. It gave her more hope that if the curse broke, everyone would revert to normal. But why had Narcissa even thought to bring them food, and then go through Filch, who certainly wouldn't have told anyone else? How much did she know about this curse?

This must be as painful for her as it is for the rest of us, Ginny reminded herself.

But then, in all the trips Ginny had made to the dungeons, she'd never once seen Narcissa visiting her son. Never once had Ginny heard a suggestion from her, even though the DADA professor was the most logical person to find the counter-curse. Narcissa seemed entirely disinterested in this matter, and in her son.

Ginny knelt down in front of Malfoy and pulled the damp towel from her pocket. His head was pressed into his knees, but Ginny gently lifted it up and cleaned it off. She didn't like him, never had and doubted she ever would, but she felt badly for him. If that horrid woman hadn't mothered him, if his father wasn't a monster, maybe he wouldn't have been such a terrible guy.

As she stood again, she noticed a slip of paper pointing up out of his pants pocket. It was probably nothing at all—Ron's pockets had been filled mostly with candy, much to Hermione's irritation—but curiosity got the best of Ginny. She carefully pulled it out and unfolded it.

Written on it in jittery handwriting was a single word.

_Mortureproba._


End file.
